She would be lying if she claimed she wasn't surprised by Luke's opinion she shouldn't dispose of her artwork. As a royal she had expected him to have only a refined, sophisticated palate for all life had to offer, be it wine, food, vehicles, antiquities, or women (the last of which gave rise to her fervent belief he couldn't care for her the way she cared for him). Rhiane was baffled that he would praise an amateur, an individual with no formal education or training beyond the country's mandated requirements, when he had undoubtedly grown accustomed to the talent of seasoned professionals. Walking through the palace there were more cultural treasures than she could count. Numerous priceless portraits, landscapes, and abstract splashes of color tastefully decorated nearly every hallway. Despite his exposure to one of the most prized private collections in the world, he was concerned she might trash her canvases, one whose only value she had assessed was sentimental. Quietly she pondered what his motivation was for trying to preserve the pieces might be: an emotional attachment or an opinion she had natural talent. Both seemed equally impossible to consider.

"I told Tobias he could take one on the condition he didn't tell anyone who the creator is," she sighed as she sat up and ran her hand through her hair. She could hear Sebastian taking his leave, his footsteps echoing beyond the door as he moved towards the stairs. Her brother-in-law had heard the beginnings of their conversation and decided to leave them to their privacy. He could not stall their staff for long, but he could at least offer reassurances that the couple was awake and ready for breakfast. "The queen I'm certain already had plans for each hour of my day- the lessons I'll take, the events I'll attend, the places where I'll make a brief public appearance. Supposing she does grant me free time for my leisure, painting is a risk I'd embarrass you. Anyone who sees what I make  will judge me, see it as a reflection on the monarchy, on you. If it's poor quality they'll laugh at me and pity you. It's fine, Luke. I knew I'd have to sacrifice these things," she declared with all the strength she could muster.

Earlier on their tour the crown prince had told his betrothed not to try to fight his battles for him. Try as she might, Rhiane could not totally abide by his request. Anything and everything she thought might be a threat to his reputation she willingly forfeited. Sebastian had called it a "martyr complex," which irritated her in no small part because it was accurate. Stubborn as she was to let go of grudges, convictions, or injustices, she was overeager to concede things dear to her when she was committed. The former farmer was laying down her life for her family, despite their protests, abandoning every skill, passion, and pursuit that would jeopardize their financial security. A tiny corner of her heart compelled her to do the same for Luke. If she could save him a moment of humiliation, pain, or disgrace, or a slew of arguments with his mother, and the only cost was a minor loss for herself and no one else, she would pay the price.

"Besides," Rhiane sighed, "you couldn't get it past Anelle without her making some sort of bitchy disparaging comment." She swung her legs over the edge of the bed but made no move to dress. If Luke's meeting the night prior had robbed them of their opportunity for some very indulgent intimacy, she had no qualms about torturing him a little with a view of her naked body, until he was just as frustrated as she was. The more he potentially regretting not getting to bed at a decent hour, the more motivated he would be to make certain that history did not repeat itself. Just because she was not angry with him did not mean she was happy with the circumstances. Women dreamed of becoming a princess, but she had multiple attempts on her life, the hatred of the aristocracy, the contempt and scrutiny of the castle, and an unending pool of criticism. There were few boons to this exchange, and Luke himself was one of them.

"Medicine?" she queried, tilting her head to the side. "We don't keep any. No one really takes any in this house, and it's an unnecessary expense we couldn't afford." He had forgotten how much she protested pharmaceuticals, be it for her twisted ankle, a broken arm, or less taxing ailments. It was not difficult to surmise her brother and father shared similar distrust and suspicion for the medical field on a whole. The lack of simple pain reliever also put into perspective the jarring differences between their backgrounds. To simple rural folk, a tablet to dull the ache of their muscles or head was a luxury. Nobles assumed that laborers were lazy, ignorant, and foolish, squandering their assets, but the truth was that many of them barely scraped by, unable to make purchases that the rest of New Rome took for granted as universal.